What thing than the lily unstained is more white?
More pure than the mystic white taper so bright?
More chaste than the orange-flower, tender and fair?
Than the light mist more virginal—holier too
Than the stone where the eucharist stands, ever new,
In the Lord's House of Prayer?

By the flight of white doves all the air now is cloven;
A white robe, from strands of the morning mist woven,
Enwraps in the distance the feudal round tower.
The trembling acacia, most graceful of trees,
Stands up in the orchard and weaves in the breeze
Her soft, snowy flower.

See you not on the mountain the white of the snow?
The white tower stands high o'er the village below;
The gentle sheep gambol and play, passing by.
Swans pure and unspotted now cover the lake;
The straight lily sways as the breezes awake;
The volcano's huge vase is uplifted on high.

Let us enter the church: shines the eucharist there;
And of snow seems to be the old pastor's white hair;
In an alb of fine linen his frail form is clad.
A hundred fair maidens there sit robed in white;
They offer bouquets of spring flowers, fresh and bright,
The blossoms of April, pure, fragrant and glad.

Let us go to the choir; the novice's prayer
Propitiously listens the Virgin so fair;
The white marble Christ on the crucifix dies;
And there without stain the white tapers rise white;
And of lace is the curtain so thin and so light,
Which the day-dawn already shines through from the skies.

Now let us go down to the field. Foaming white,
The stream seems a tumult of feathers in flight,
As its waters run, foaming and singing in glee.
In its airy mantilla of mist cool and pale
The mountain is wrapped; the swift bark's lateen sail
Glides out and is lost to our sight on the sea.

The lovely young woman now springs from her bed,
On her goddess-like shoulders fresh water to shed,
On her fair, polished arms and her beautiful neck.
Now, singing and smiling, she girds on her gown;
Bright, tremulous drops, from her hair shaken down,
Her comb of Arabian ivory deck.

O marble! O snows! O vast, wonderful whiteness!
Your chaste beauty everywhere sheds its pure brightness,
O shy, timid vestal, to chastity vowed!
In the statue of beauty eternal are you;
From your soft robe is purity born, ever new;
You give angels wings, and give mortals a shroud.

You cover the child to whom life is yet new.
Crown the brows of the maiden whose promise is true,
Clothe the page in rich raiment, as fair as a star.
How white are your mantles of ermine, O queens!
The cradle how white, where the fond mother leans!
How white, my beloved, how spotless you are!

In proud dreams of love, I behold with delight
The towers of a church rising white in my sight,
And a home, hid in lilies, that opens to me;
And a bridal veil hung on your forehead so fair,
Like a filmy cloud, floating down slow through the air,
Till it rests on your shoulders, a marvel to see!

De Blanco

¿Qué cosa más blanca que cándido lirio?
¿Qué cosa más pura que místico cirio?
¿Qué cosa más casta que tierno azahar?
¿Qué cosa mas virgen que leve neblina?
¿Qué cosa más santa que el ara divina
de gótico altar?

¡De blancas palomas el aire se puebla;
con túnica blanca, tejida de niebla,
se envuelve a lo lejos del feudal torreón;

erguida en el huerto la trémula acacia
al soplo del viento sacude con gracia
su níveo pompón!
¿No ves en el monte la nieve que albea?
La torre muy blanca domina la aldea,
las tiernas ovejas triscando se van,
de cisnes intactos el lago se llena,
columpia su copa la enhiesta azucena,
y su ánfora inmensa levanta el volcán.

Entremos al templo: la hostia fulgura;
de nieve parecen las canas del cura,
vestido con alba de lino sutil;
cien niñas hermosas ocupan las bancas,
y todas vestidas con túnicas blancas
en ramos ofrecen las flores de abril.

Subamos al coro: la virgen propicia
escucha los rezos de casta novicia,
y el cristo de mármol expira en la cruz;
sin mancha se yerguen las velas de cera;
de encaje es la tenue cortina ligera
que ya transparente del alba la luz.

Bajemos al campo: tumulto de plumas
parece el arroyo de blancas espumas
que quieren, cantando, correr y saltar;
la airosa mantilla de fresca neblina
terció la montaña: la vela latina
de barca ligera se pierde en el mar.

Ya salta del lecho la joven hermosa,
y el agua refresca sus hombros de diosa,
sus brazos ebúrneos, su cuello gentil;
cantando y risueña se ciñe la enagua
y trémulas brillan las gotas de agua
en su árabe peine de blanco marfil.

¡Oh mármol! ¡Oh nieve! ¡Oh inmensa blancura
que esparces doquiera tu casta hermosura!
¡Oh tímida virgen! ¡Oh casta vestal!
Tú estás en la estatua de eterna belleza,
de hábito blanco nació la pureza,
¡al ángel das alas, sudario al mortal!

Tú cubres al niño que llega a la vida,
coronas las sienes de fiel prometida,
al paje revistes de rico tisú.

¡Qué blancos son, reinas, los mantos de armiño!

¡Qué blanca es, oh madres, la cuna del niño!

¡Qué blanca, mi amada, qué blanca eres tú!